


Shadows over Vauxhall Cross

by marroniere_m



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lovecraft Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Post-Skyfall, Soft Horror, Tentacles, occasional dark comedy vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28550316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marroniere_m/pseuds/marroniere_m
Summary: James Bond is sure that the new M is anyone but a human being. Q prefers science to conspiracy theories. However, there are some things science just can't explain.
Relationships: M | Gareth Mallory/Q
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

“He didn’t even let anyone touch his shoulder,” Bond says. “Now think.”

“And what is it I should think about?” Q asks, still hunched over a microscope. 

Bond leans on the edge of a lab table, as if he were standing in his own living room. Q can feel his presence almost physically. Just as though the whole room magically adjusted to Bond the moment he opened the door. 

Q finds this rather distracting. 

He looks harder into what was supposed to be a microslide containing Silva’s blood. There are several reasons he has to study the samples in such an old-fashioned way, number one being the chemical team’s complaints about their analyzers breaking down. The engineers still fail to explain how such a thing could have happened. Number two is a hypothesis that was put forward by two of Q’s chemists. The hypothesis, absurd as it seems: those blood samples belong to anyone but a human. 

This, Q reminds himself, is precisely the blood that was taken after an autopsy on Silva’s body, the very body that was found near the ruins left of Skyfall mansion and brought to London from Scotland. Still, even Q, with his limited knowledge of biochemistry, is surprised by what he sees. 

“If you’ve come here to share a brand new conspiracy theory, this might not be the best moment.”

Bond chuckles. 

“And,” Q continues, “the theory that our world is ruled by lizards is quite an old one, as far as I know. Some people in our country have already made millions off it. The niche is occupied, 007. Think of something more original.”

“Not talking about lizards,” Bond says. 

“Then what are you talking about?” 

Bond doesn’t answer. Judging by the sound, he steals one of the microslides, but puts it back before Q has a chance to stop him and tell him off. 

“Just,” Bond says, closing the door, “Watch Mallory. And be careful.”

After he leaves, Q studies the samples for a while, as if hoping that his microscope shows him something new, or he suddenly thinks of some detail he hadn’t considered before. Something about simple physiological processes normally occurring after death that could have changed the blood structure. But nothing comes to his mind. 

Perhaps he can even agree with Singh and Goulston: whatever this thing is, it doesn’t look like human blood. 

  


Three days and two ruined analyzers after, Rajiv Singh jokes they should send those samples to Theranos. 

“A Christmas present for Elizabeth Holmes,” Q says. 

“From humble British scientists.”

“Oh, the humblest”, Q mutters, and at this moment an unexpected idea pops into his mind. 

“Let’s just start with how — and, most importantly, why — we ended up having our own forensics lab.”

Gareth Mallory sits absolutely still. He still has to wear a bandage on his shoulder, so, Q deduces, he tries to move his arm as little as possible. 

“Strictly speaking, sir,” Q says, “it’s not exactly a forensics lab. With your predecessor we discussed the importance of biomedical research. This was one of our long-term goals. And this was why the staffing was, um, strengthened. Rather practical, down-to-earth things, sir. We’re not playing Sherlock Holmes or even inspector Lestrade.” 

The new M listens to him attentively. He still doesn’t move, but narrows his eyes — cold, pale blue, strangely small pupils. 

“In that case, why would you need to study Silva’s blood?”

Now this starts to feel like an interrogation.

“You see, sir, Raoul Silva did show remarkable results all the way. Stamina, speed and reactions no agent could boast. At least not those who currently work for us. And this is considering he hadn’t even had fifteen minutes of sleep in twenty-four hours he had spent imprisoned. The bullets couldn’t stop him. He was acting as though he wasn’t feeling any pain at all. 

For a brief second, it seems Mallory’s pupils turn vertical, just like those of a snake. Q dismisses this thought, but not without irony: this is what lack of sleep does to you.

“In Silicon Valley,” Q explains, “there’s a thing called microdosing. Miniscule amounts of LSD taken regularly to reach peak brain activity. And perhaps Silva had been microdosing himself with something that’s much more interesting than LSD. Something we have no idea about. Should this be true, it would have meant an opportunity for our agents”. 

“And for this opportunity you’re ready to disclose state secrets.”

“I’m talking about a trusted contact in Cambridge. This person has been working with our scientific center for years.”

“Still,” Mallory says, “the risks”. 

“Giving up research means we’re going to lag behind other intelligence services. And this, in turn, means we’re putting our field agents in danger.”

“Danger from a lack of drugs that haven’t even been discovered yet is hypothethetic,” Mallory answers. “The risks tied to disclosing confidential information are real”. 

The way he says this gives Q the impression that the conversation is over. 

When Mallory pronounces the word real, Q hears something metallic slipping in his voice, something aloof and distant. 

It’s interesting, he thinks, how those people from Whitehall speak. 

Still, Q decides to take his chances with the whole blood thing yet again and writes Mallory a long email. He suggests at least sending the samples to Porton Down and lists ten arguments why working with a classified research facility in this particular case bears very few risks for the MI6. Mallory’s answer is short.

“For a number of reasons we have previously discussed, I am afraid I must decline.”

To make his frustration go away, Q buys an enormous package of chocolate and peanut cookies at a local organic store (doesn’t matter if he promised himself not to eat this much sugar). He slowly devours the cookies at night, in his living room, not feeling any taste at all. Pets the cats absent-mindedly. Throws Hecuba a catnip ball, starts brushing Cassandra’s fur — it’s therapeutic, helps even after conversations with bureaucrats. 

Well, he will figure things out. Eventually. 

Bond has just returned from a mission in Benghazi, and he already knows the blood story. How exactly he managed to sniff this out, Q has zero idea. 

“Not your clearance level,” Q says. 

“Oh, please.”

“If you ever raise this subject again, I’ll be forced to request an internal inquiry. I can’t have field agents reading classified files like this-”

“But I didn’t read anything,” Bond interrupts him. “How about a smoke break?” 

“I don’t smoke, and you shouldn’t either. Taking into account the results of your medical examination.”

Truth be told, Bond also shouldn’t drink like a horse and take so many painkillers that his daily dose would have been enough for an entire traumatology department.

“Alright,” Bond suddenly agrees. “Then why don’t we just go watch squirrels?” 

Q raises an eyebrow. 

“A small park right next to our new bunker,” Bond explains. “I’ve seen some squirrels there”. 

“And why would I go watch squirrels with you right now?”

Bond shrugs.

“To de-stress.”

“There are no squirrels here.” 

“Even if there were, they must have died up long ago.” 

Bond is like a dog — an English bulldog, perhaps, — which, having smelled something it finds important, pulls you in that direction unless you finally surrender and follow. 

Q sits on the edge of a bench. 

“I do hope,” he says, “your conspiracy theory is at least original.” 

“And it doesn’t even have lizards.” 

“Good to hear. Not a fan of lizards.” 

“Then you’ll definitely not be a fan of Mallory”.

“007,” Q says, “you will not make a good conspiracy theorist. Our new boss is a way too obvious choice. Why don’t you start suspecting Tanner? Or miss Moneypenny? Or me, for the sake of variety?” 

“You’re not one of them. It’s obvious.”

“Remember, 007, the killer is always the gardener”. 

“Listen,” Bond says. “Silva’s blood ate through my shirt. There’s a burn on my shoulder, the size of a coin. Feel like joking about conspiracy theories now?” 

“But,” Q says and then immediately stops. 

“Don’t trust me? A quick question — why don’t your chemists have a look at the knife I stuck in Silva’s back?”

“How are the trustworthiness of our new boss and the knife you stuck in Silva’s back connected?”

“It’s not about his trustworthiness,” Bond corrects. “I’m not saying that M’s wanted by Interpol. What I’m saying is that M isn’t exactly human. Just like Silva. Just like someone else in England, I suppose. And in the rest of the world”. 

“You’ll need to explain,” Q says. 

“You’ll need to work it out.”

Q looks at him intently.

“Well, no. I only solve riddles that have an adequate scientific basis. I want to know the details. Otherwise, I’m afraid we're not having this conversation.” 

“Some things,” Bond says, “you can’t understand unless you come face-to-face with them. I did. About thirty years ago, in Scotland — the details are in my personal files, and you know this. I did see those things after Scotland, as well, and not one time. Afghanistan. Iraq. Saudi Arabia — there are plenty of them, but they’re slightly different. I’ve seen a couple in the States, too.” 

“Who do you mean by them?”

“As far as I’ve heard, they’re called simply. The Great Old Ones.”

“Do I take it correctly,” Q starts, “that you’re talking about an entirely different biological species?” 

Bond just nods. 

“Interesting,” Q says. “When I was at school, I used to like H. P. Lovecraft. He too wrote about some Great Old Ones. But he was a science fiction writer.”

His words apparently irritate Bond. 

“The forensic examination of my father’s body is in my files,” Bond says. “Third chapter. Have a look at this. And tell me if you still think it’s science fiction.” 

Andrew Bond’s body, according to the coroner’s report, was completely drained of blood. Numerous haematomas were found near his neck and at the back of his hands, evenly spaced, each approximately an inch in size and looking like a suction mark. This is what Q finds in the files.

Then Q hears Mallory’s voice coming from the door. 

“Prefer to work at night?” 

“Well,” Q says, quickly closing the files, “some of my people work night shifts, and I prefer to stay with them.”

“There’s no one here.”

“Not in this part of the building, sir.”

Even if Mallory is one of those reptilians, Great Old Ones or whatever things that must have killed Bond’s father, he seems friendly enough. However, Q still looks at him with curiosity and a healthy dose of suspicion. 

“I noticed,” Mallory says, looking around, “my refusal might have seemed a bit too harsh to you”. 

“By no means, sir.”

“Anyway,” Mallory continues, “I wanted to say I have the highest respect for your work.”

“Which is absolutely mutual, sir.” 

“You did manage well through the whole Silva situation. Kept calm. Reacted quickly. Suggested a bold solution. Creating a faux tail of breadcrumbs for Silva was unexpected, but smart.”

“Thank you, sir,” Q says. “I try to do my best.”

Mallory comes a few steps closer, and Q notices, just like the previous time, that his pupils seem vertical, snake-like, but then they become normal again. 

“Listen,” Mallory says. “I have no intention of interfering with your work in any way. Nor do I want you to think I’m anti-science.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Why don’t we have dinner together this week?” Mallory asks. 

Then he adds, as if trying to explain, “Wherever I work, I prefer to look for common ground with the others. Spares you a lot of time, budget money, and human lives, for that matter.” 

He gives Q an almost unnoticeable smile.

“And it just so happened that we’re in the same team.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you know about M?”

“The same things you do,” Tanner puts a small banana muffin and a smoked salmon sandwich on the counter. “And a large cappuccino, please. Regular milk.”

He turns to Q.

“Still running on Earl Gray?”

“Can’t really eat in the morning,” Q says, trying to place a lid on a paper cup and not drop everything on the floor. He does sometimes switch to coffee when he has pressing deadlines, but tea is what keeps him alive at eight a.m.

“So. Our boss.”

“I know nothing special,” Tanner says. “Eton. Oxford, Balliol College. Never married. Served in the Hereford regiment. The IRA bit that you already know. Quite a fast political career. All in his bio.”

“Not those things,” Q says. “I mean, what’s your impression?”

Tanner watches a barista tinkering with the milk frother.

“Too early to have an impression.”

“Your first thoughts, then?”

The barista finally hands Tanner his cappuccino. Tanner takes it and glances at his watch.

“My first thought is that he’s clever and, at the same time, decent enough. Which is rare for a politician. And he has a reputation for standing his ground. Can fight for what he finds important.”

“I noticed,” Q mutters.

“Which could be good for us,” Tanner says, opening the door with his free hand. “Your equipment budgets. My workplaces.”

“What’s your tactic then?”

Tanner takes a sip of coffee as he goes.

“Wait and see.”

Q decides it would have been unwise to ask Moneypenny direct questions. Not after this conversation with Tanner, no. So he just observes her from a distance, the way she looks at Mallory, the way she talks to him. Q tries to see if there’s a faintest hint of tension in her gestures or intonations. But Moneypenny acts in exactly the same way she acted around Olivia Mansfield. There’s nothing suspicious about her behavior at all, which itself is suspicious.

He replays the Whitehall shootout footage yet again. Watches Silva walking down the center aisle. Silva’s men killing the guards. Mallory covering Olivia Mansfield. Q pauses the video and zooms in.

“Come here, Bond.”

Bond takes his eyes off the automatic rifle Q’s been reassembling for the past two days.

“Just how many bullets did Mallory catch that day?” Q asks.

“I didn’t keep score.”

“Four.”

Q plays Bond those particular three seconds of the footage.

“Two must have hit his lungs, one his abdomen. But we only saw a bandage on his shoulder. Think about this.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I checked everything,” Q says. “Not only didn’t he let anyone touch his shoulder, he never asked for any help at the medical at all. Even if he did, it’s not documented, which is strange. Also, not a single mention of this case in any hospital of London, public or private. With the wounds that look mortal even to me, and I’m no expert on gunshot wounds, you know.”

“Still don’t believe me?”

“Suppose I do. But what’s your plan now?”

Bond silently nods in the direction of the rifle.

Q rolls his eyes.

“Why am I not surprised?”

And so they argue for about an hour.

Bond reminds Q of those characters from sci-fi movies — “first you kill it, then you figure out what it wanted.” And Q has seen and read enough sci-fi to know that this tactic only worked in the first Alien. They, however, are not in a Ridley Scott movie. This is real life, and in real life what Bond’s idea actually means for both of them is a court-martial at best and a lifetime sentence at worst.

What is more, the whole situation sparks Q’s curiosity, the curiosity of a scientist. At a first glance, they’re dealing with things that cannot be explained neither by physics, nor by biology. But Q is sure about one thing. Every time we think there is no explanation and nothing makes sense, we just have to think again, harder. Explanations always appear if we truly want to see them.

And he intends to find an explanation for all of this.

“He’ll quite literally bleed you dry before you even get a chance to collect material for your new thesis,” Bond says.

“Biochemistry is not my research field, 007. Besides, everything I wanted to prove to the scientific community, I already did.”

“You heard me. He’s going to kill you.”

“I’m not slipping Polonium-210 into his tea.”

“I’m sure your friends at Porton Down can think of more sophisticated ways to poison someone.”

“No,” Q says. “Not until I find out what he wants and why he’s here.”

“Go ahead, ask him.”

“Do I look like a moron?”

“Right now?” Bond asks. “A little bit.”

“Bond,” Q says. “If we’re doing something together, this doesn’t mean we’re playing by your rules. I might have different views, and you’ll need to reckon with it.”

Bond looks at him with derision.

“Or?”

“Or I’ll have to tell M about this unofficial investigation of yours. I don’t think I’m going to mention you plotting his murder. But what I’m going to do is drop a hint that you’re busying yourself with quite a lot of absolutely unnecessary things on company time. And that it might be a good idea to send you away… to Guatemala, for instance. Good weather, no Great Old Ones.”

The derision in Bond’s eyes is quickly replaced by ill-concealed resentment — as though he wanted to show Q was a traitor or something.

Q ignores this.

“So,” he says serenely, “Are we working together or what?”

He tries his best to sleep, but he can’t, and this is how he ends up googling Lovecraft’s short stories at half past four in the morning. He remembers all those names and plotlines. The dead city of R’lyeh where Ctulhu sleeps, buried deep underwater. Cthylla, the daughter of Ctulhu, The Secret One. Yog Sothoth, The Outer God, the embodiment of all time and space. Azathoth, a deity that to Q seems a symbol of primordial chaos, all eyes and tentacles, and thousands of gaping mouths. The tall, dark figure of Nyarlathotep, Azatoth’s servant. Shub-Niggurath, she who eats her own children. Dagon and his followers from Innsmouth.

Q attempts to combine these two realities in his head. The Lovecraftian one, with sons of Yog Sothoth in Dunwich, Massachusetts. His one, the reality he is used to, with his scrabble mugs, his thesis, his Alan Moore comics collection, his nights spent on Reddit, hundreds of NDAs and instructions restricting every step he takes as the head of the Q-branch. Well, the reality he is used to can only be called relatively normal — there are international terrorists, sudden explosions, different types of neurotoxins meant to use for work purposes — but still. Those two realities don’t combine in his head. They are, quite plainly and simply, different, and therefore should not come into contact.

But here they are, and, if Bond is right, they have already come into contact.

And Q is almost sure that Bond is right about certain things. He just might not be right about everything.

Q has heard nothing about the place Mallory chooses. He gathers the overall impression from numerous details that catch his eye, though. A typical gentleman’s club. This week’s password is “bulldog”.

Massive oak panels on the walls, dark green velvet armchairs, portraits of pale-skinned and sour-faced people in clothes that look Edwardian. The receptionist, the doorman, the waiters — their faces seem strangely similar. Their manners, Q notices, are similarly old-fashioned, as well. Whoever owns this place, they probably instruct the staff to act as though it is 1914 before Ferdinand’s assasination. Quite typical.

Mallory is already waiting for Q in one of the private dining rooms. There Q also sees portraits of unknown gentlemen, but those are not Edwardian. Thirties, forties, maybe. Men with thin lips, chiseled jaws, and stern faces. All clad in double-breasted suits.

“You’re punctual,” Mallory says.

“I guess you don’t want to be late for a meeting with your immediate supervisor,” Q answers. “Your favourite place?”

“I do like coming here from time to time.”

The waiter pours some wine into their glasses. Mallory tastes it. Nods slightly — it’s a short, dignified gesture. Then he turns to Q.

“Took the liberty of choosing wine for us.”

This is a red wine that is oaky, full-bodied, but at the same time well-balanced.

They drink in silence.

“I assume,” Mallory finally says, “you might have some questions.”

Q stills.

Mallory continues, “If you do, here’s your chance to ask them”.

Q watches his face expression, his eyes — but he sees nothing reptile-like, nothing outside the norm. Mallory’s face is calm.

“You didn’t invite me here to get to know me,” Q observes.

“This was important, too.”

A thin line, Q thinks. He does not want to give Mallory the impression that he might know something. He does not want to pretend he is an idiot, either — apparently, Mallory can read people well.

“I still don’t get why you refused additional research on Silva’s blood”.

“I didn’t,” answers Mallory. “You can continue your research with people you trust. Just don’t send the samples to anyone outside the MI6. It’s as simple as that.”  
“I don’t see how it is possible without people outside the MI6.”

Mallory is clearly unimpressed.

“You don’t trust yourself.”

Yeah, Q thinks, he obviously has a couple of reasons not to trust himself, in the circumstances. For instance, the sheer fact that the things he has learnt in the past few days completely and utterly contradict everything he knows about how the world works.

“In terms of trust,” Q says. “You don’t want anyone outside the MI6 to be involved. But I take it you are more than fine with us continuing our research. So the conclusion may be. There is something about Silva’s death that people aren’t supposed to find out. But for some reason you accept that I can find out. Am I right?”

“Q,” Mallory says. “I know that you know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Q asks, although he knows the answer perfectly well.

“You were frightened,” Mallory says. “When we had that conversation in the Q-branch. I could feel that. You also erased all the data about things you were reading that night. You look at me with suspicion, just like Bond.”

The name of Bond he pronounces with a hint of discontent. Predictably, they’re not working so well together. Bond refuses to take of the new M’s orders. Disciplinary actions follow. Bond does sit quietly through weekly agent briefings, but, taking his plans into account, he could have at least feigned more enthusiasm and respect. Bond doesn’t do it, of course.

Right now, though, it’s not about Bond. Q feels like an idiot. “I know that you know” is a vague phrase that could mean a lot of different things.

“So now you have to kill me, don’t you?”

He sees Mallory’s smile for the second time in a month they've known each other.

“And then I’ll have to explain why the head of the Q-branch died in unclear circumstances right after a dinner with me. Not terribly smart.”

“And what is it you’re going to do?”

“I think the question should be different,” Mallory says. “What are we going to do.”

Q waits for him to continue.

“First, you’ll ask questions, and I’ll try my best to answer,” says Mallory. “After that we’ll need to discuss one work-related thing. You might need to mentally prepare yourself for this discussion, though.”

Q starts to laugh nervously.

Mallory doesn’t react to this at all.

“Well,” Q concludes, “It isn’t every day that you learn your boss is-”

“A blood-sucking creature plotting to destroy humanity?” Mallory asks, and in his voice Q hears amusement.

“Why, is it on your list?”

Q stops himself immediately. Exchanging wits with an ancient beast is, by all means, an idiot decision. But Mallory seems to like his question.

“It’s not, but I suspect it would have been a popular version.”

“Fine,” Q says. “Let me sum this up. You’re not human. You’re not going to kill me, unless you’re cooking up some elaborate plan I won’t be able to figure out anyway because you already have an advantage over me, you know things I don’t and everything. And you want to tell me something important.”

Mallory doesn’t say a word, his face unreadable. Whether he wants to add something or waits for Q to come to some kind of conclusion on his own, Q can’t tell.

Q says, “To be honest, I need some time to process this”.

He glances at Mallory, “Why don’t we go get some fresh air?”


	3. Chapter 3

The street is covered by scarce November snow, half of which has already turned to water. Q does not see a single car, and he does find this rather peculiar. This place seems to be surprisingly quiet for this part of the city.

Q inhales deeply and leans on the wall. 

He wants to ask his questions casually, as neutral as possible, as if the things he’d like to talk about were the most natural things in the world. It just feels right. 

“How did you get rid of the bullets?” 

“Came home and pulled them out,” Mallory answers flatly. “Wouldn’t recommend this.”

“And then you kept on working as though nothing happened.”

“A bit of Tramadol, a bit of patience. The wounds healed in two days.” 

Q can hear men’s voices coming from a nearby street. Mallory stiffens visibly, looks alert. In a second the voices die down.

“Are there people like you in the MI6?” Q asks.

“There were. In the fifties.” 

“And in the government?” 

“If you think we’re all covering each other up, you’re mistaken. But I’ve heard of a few.” 

Mallory says this devoid of any emotion, and he doesn’t look annoyed at all, yet the air around Q gets colder. For a brief moment, Q is sure the temperature drops below zero, totally inconsistent with today’s weather report.

He deduces he must have said something wrong. 

“I, um, apologize if I offended you,” he manages. 

“You didn’t,” Mallory says. “Any more questions?”

Q turns to him. 

“Why the MI6?”

Mallory does not seem a single bit surprised by his question.

“My reasons are similar to yours. I like to think that my skills can be of use somewhere.”

“Which ones, exactly?” Q asks. 

Mallory’s answer is quick. 

“Protecting others,” he says.

When they return, Q downs one more glass of wine because he feels he just might not be able to get straight to discussing work. Mallory listens to the silence. In this moment he reminds Q of Hecuba and Cassandra — the cats act in the same way when they hear something you can’t.

Q is just about to suggest ordering dinner when Mallory says, “Looks like we’ll have to discuss work somewhere else.” 

“We must leave,” he adds. “Now.”

In the corridor they’re met by a waiter, the one that brought their wine. 

“Distract them,” Mallory says.

The waiter just nods. Without saying a word, he gestures at the end of the corridor. 

The emergency exit appears to be hidden behind an almost wall-sized painting, a portrait of an eighteenth century gentleman whose features vaguely resemble those of the waiter, as well as the doorman, the receptionist, and pretty much everyone who works here. Same waxen face, same high cheekbones. 

Q doesn’t quite see what Mallory does with the painting, but it moves to the side. There is a back door that looks like it should lead to a nearby street. Narrow, dark stairs. Q threads carefully, trying not to stumble. When he gets out, he immediately sees Mallory’s car waiting for them.

“That was quick,” Q says. 

Mallory looks at the street through the car window. It seems to Q he is not really here. In a moment, though, he comes back to reality. 

“Asked Gordon to park at a sensible distance. As if I knew this would happen.”

“This… what?” 

“Let’s not discuss this in a car.”

“Mysteries, mysteries,” Q mutters. “Where are we going?”

“We’ll decide now.”

“My place, how about that?”

Mallory looks at Q with polite amusement. Then he says, “Bit too early for the first dinner together, don’t you think?” 

Q glances at the driver. He seems to be concentrating on the road, but still. 

“Gordon’s our man,” Mallory says, and Q starts to wonder if he can read minds, on top of everything Q already knows about him.

“Your man,” Q specifies. 

Gordon has blond hair, reddish cheeks and a strong jawline. A regular face you’d see in the streets, or at your local pub, or in lines for EasyJet flights to Spain and Turkey during holiday season. And then Gordon makes a short, screeching laugh that does not in any way fit in this picture. This laugh is more like the sounds lizards make when they want to ward an enemy off.

“Don’t scare me like that, Gordon,” Q says. 

Gordon answers in a low, completely human and slightly raspy voice.

“You’re too easily scared, mister Q. Sir.”

Q decides to ignore this.

“Hackney Wick,” he states matter-of-factly. 

Then turns to Mallory.

“Those who were watching you know where you have confidential meetings. It would be stupid to assume they don’t know where you live.”

“Not an easy task, finding your door.”

“This is the reason I suggested talking at my place,” Q says. 

His flat is the only one on this floor. Actually, his flat occupies the whole floor of this house. The house is a former storage building from the Victorian times — those are now bought up by property companies and turned into lofts, with ground floors occupied by coffee shops serving all kinds of matcha latte known to the world, restaurants serving pizza with toppings as bizarre as chili con carne or Peking duck, craft bars selling APAs and IPAs with particularly silly names. There is a bar like this on the ground floor of Q’s house. Also a ramen joint run by a couple of twenty-somethings, a bookshop so niche nobody except for Q ever goes there, and a yoga studio. Its owner, a petite lady in her fifties, also sells esoteric goods to everyone interested — hence the smell of incense that permeates everything within at least a few yards. 

Places like his have certain advantages, number one being anonymity. It is easy to get lost here, among motley street signs and random people Instagramming their brunches. The second advantage, in Q’s opinion, is the possibility of changing quite literally anything you want without informing local authorities or house management. In this house, installing as many security cameras and sensors as Q did, was easier than it would have been in an apartment block, or in a typical semi. Especially in a typical semi.

“Careful,” Q instructs. “There’s an iris scanner, and I haven’t yet uploaded your biometrical data.” 

“Yet,” Mallory chuckles. 

When the cats see Mallory, they start going insane — Cassandra hisses and Hecuba hides under the sofa. 

“Can’t say animals like me,” Mallory says calmly. “And dogs like me even less than cats do.”

“The cats will get used to you,” Q says. “They’ll have to.” 

Mallory looks around. 

“You do have a great library.” 

“In this bookshelf I keep everything that was a single bit relevant to my PhD,” Q says. “In those four, everything else. Math. My first love. Computer science, my second love. Data science, just because you can’t really understand the world we currently live in without data science, you know. But I also keep a shelf for chemistry. Especially proud of my toxicology books collection. I’ve been collecting books on forensic science for some time, too. You can’t really consult with Scotland Yard on certain cases, you know.”  
Mallory listens, but Q feels there are other books that really interest him. What really catches Mallory’s eye is Q’s sci fi collection. Douglas Adams, Bradbury, Asimov, Lovecraft, Lem, with his stories about extraterrestrial oceans that have their own minds. 

“I’m afraid this is not going to help us with our work,” Q says. “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

“No, thanks,” Mallory declines politely. “I would like to talk to you about Silva though.”

“Am I correct in the assumption that those who were following us were somehow connected to him?” 

“Yes,” Mallory says. “What I am fairly sure about is that they serve the same... thing Silva did.”

“Silva seemed independent to me.”

“They all do.”

“So who did he serve?” 

“And this we are going to need to find out,” Mallory says. “And then we will have to track this thing and kill it. Perhaps it will take us a couple of years. The Great Old Ones do know how to hide. This isn’t going to be fast, and neither is it going to be easy. And I can’t say it’s an enjoyable job. But at least it’s interesting. An adventure, I’d say.” 

“This doesn’t exactly sound motivating.” 

Mallory gives Q a solemn look. 

“And do you have other choices?”

Q wants to take his eyes off Mallory, but he knows can stand this gaze, and so he does. He is not afraid. 

“Stormtroopers burn down Luke Skywalker’s farm, his uncle and aunt are dead, and now the only choice he has left is becoming a Jedi.”

Mallory waits for him to explain where he’s going with this.

“But this is not Star Wars,” Q says. 

Mallory does not answer.

“The wisest choice,” Q continues, “would have been refusing to do what you want me to do. Refusing to help you in any way. People take risks, this is how life works. But everything I’ve known about life so far tells me that if you are embarking on a search for something inexplicable and possibly tentacled, your risks at least double. Not that I have a lot of experience slaying ancient beasts, but I suspect this is the case.” 

“Fine,” Mallory says, with well-concealed disdain in his voice. “If you think you have a choice.” 

“Yes,” Q answers. “I have a choice. And my choice is to help you. Because if the only thing I cared about was my own well-being, we wouldn’t be working together.” 

He sits on the sofa, fishes his laptop out of the briefcase and opens it. 

“So let’s get to work, shall we?” 

They spend the night checking everyone Silva could have possibly contacted in the past few years. At least they check everyone Q’s managed to track. Mallory leaves by morning. 

“However all this turns out,” Q says, “you were right. This is interesting.”

“Will get even more interesting soon,” Mallory says. “Now get some sleep.”

He closes the door.

Q does not sleep a minute in the two hours he has before he needs to shave, change, brush his hair and go to work. He sorts through everything he remembers from that evening and asks himself rather uncomfortable questions. What made him, for example, decide that he could trust Mallory? The reasons he finds sound rational. First, Mallory never showed any intention at all to kill him. Second, Mallory stated clearly what he was here for. To protect others. And judging by the incident that happened during Olivia Mansfield’s hearings, his words are backed up by actions. Third, whoever is behind Silva, this person definitely is dangerous. Be it the Great Old One or a human, this is an international criminal — and finding him is in the best interest of the MI6, so it is not about Mallory’s weird personal projects anymore. 

But apart from all those reasons there is another explanation, which is completely irrational. Q does not not like explanations of this sort — they often sound silly, and even more often they do not stand up to the test of reality. 

However, there is something that makes Q feel he can trust Mallory. As simple as that.

“FIVE DEAD IN SOUTH KENSINGTON, POLICE START INVESTIGATION”

Mallory sends him a link to a news article on BBC without any comment. Q checks the address — no news website reveals the exact name of the place, but this is exactly the same address he went to last evening, at nine. 

Q almost spills his Earl Grey on the keyboard. 

“Did you know them?” he texts.

“There were some friends,” Mallory texts back in a second.

“I’m so sorry,” Q responds, still doubting whether something like that would be appropriate considering they don’t know each other too well.

Mallory reads this. And then nothing. 

At least, Q thinks, the two of them managed to leave the place. He suspects even Mallory hadn’t known the situation would escalate so quickly. 

In the opposite corner of the room, he sees Villiers scolding the assistants — there are Harrison, Milicevic and Fordham. Q remembers it was Villiers who persuaded him to hire those three, by the way.

“For fuck’s sake,” Villiers starts, but then glances at Q and lowers his voice. 

Q pretends to be too busy to pay attention.

“You were supposed to watch 007 this night. Three men. Just one night. Three, might I repeat, qualified employees, whose training has cost the MI6-”

He is exaggerating the sum, Q briefly notes, but does not interrupt Villiers. 

Bond has been brought under special control for a week. When he is not in the field, he is supposed to be in his new flat, strictly from half past eleven till eight in the morning. This, as Mallory explained, is a measure taken “in order to avoid possible incidents”. Normally it is Q who watches Bond, but yesterday, knowing that he would be dining with Mallory, he delegated the task to Villiers. And Villiers apparently delegated it to Harrison, Fordham and Milicevic at once. The outcome is quite predictable. 

Q is just about to start a very serious conversation with the four of them, but what he hears makes him forget about insignificant disciplinary issues and even about more significant management issues, such as which tasks can be delegated and which can’t. 

“Would you care to explain why 007 was in South Kensington that night if his flat is in Chelsea?”


	4. Chapter 4

“And why on earth did you do this?”

Bond does not seem to be feeling any remorse at all.

“So now you’re scolding me for going to bed late.”

“No,” Q says. “I have other things to do than scold you for anything. But I do refuse to help you in your investigation. You’re doing whatever nonsensical thing pops into your head without even bothering to warn me. This is not teamwork.”

“Neither is working part time as Mallory’s bitch.”

“I was absolutely honest with you when I said I wanted to understand what he was up to,” Q says. “And for that matter, no sexual intercourse was needed.”

This is a blow meant to Bond. But Q feels that at the same time it’s an attempt to protect himself and his pride. The very idea that Bond thinks he is so quick to submit to someone angers him. So does the idea that he can be taken in so easily by a heartfelt conversation about saving the world. He is neither weak, nor a moron, despite whatever Bond might think of him.

He never does anything he didn’t choose to.

“So,” Bond says, with a tinge of mockery, “I take it now you do know what he is up to.”

“Yes,” Q says. “He wants the same thing you do. And I want you two to listen to each other, for once. And to put up with the fact you two work together, not against each other.”

“Or?” Bond asks.

“Or, as I’ve already said, I am not helping you in any way.”

Bond gets off the park bench.

“You’re naive.”

Q watches him walk towards the exit and does nothing to stop him. He already knows Bond well enough to understand Bond acts like this whenever things do not go his way. Feigns indifference and leaves to make his opponents think they need him more than he needs them.

The park today is entirely empty. It looks lifeless, like a video paused. Q is fairly sure he doesn’t even see any tree branches moving. But there is a small, grey squirrel climbing one of the trees.

“007,” Q calls.

Bond turns to give Q his signature why-am-I-not-surprised look.

“You said there were no squirrels,” Q says.

Q thinks this might sound a bit weird, but Bond does not make a sarcastic comment like he usually does. There is something of a wild cat in the way Bond moves. He reacts instinctively, grabs his gun without a second thought.

Q just stills. He has no gun with him, and, frankly, no ways to help Bond in this situation. The only option he has is to run, which means leaving Bond, which means it is not an option.

The squirrel is not a squirrel anymore — it’s turned into a being that looks nothing like any animal you could see in London. It does vaguely resemble a human, though — two legs, two arms, one head, prolonged and hollow-cheeked. And Bond fires right in the head — one bullet, two, three.

Seconds before the first bullet blows this beast’s brains out, its throat is squeezed by a black and slippery-looking tentacle an arm’s width. Q hears the sound of bones crushing. The body — neck broken, half the skull left — falls on the parkway.

Among trees they see Mallory — looking just as usual, suit and coat without a single stain of blood. “Oh” is the only thing Q manages to say.

He eyes Bond and Mallory. One still has a gun in his hand. The other might seem unarmed at a first glance, but this impression is deceiving.

“I think,” Q says, “it’s time you two finally talk to each other.”

The conversation almost turns into a heated argument about who actually killed this thing, but Mallory stops at the right moment. He seems to quickly understand this could have been going on and on for hours. So Mallory just ignores a snide remark Bond makes and lets Bond think whatever he wants.

Then Mallory leans down to look at the corpse. Q tries to focus his attention on something else — snow, benches, three branches. Perhaps it is for his lack of field experience, but he does not really find looking at crushed skulls and brains-covered pavement that entertaining.

“We have no time,” Mallory says. “Someone must have heard the bullets”.

“And,” Q says, “um, what about this?”

He nods at the corpse. There is a puddle of thick, purple blood growing under its head.

“Gordon will eat this,” Mallory says, in a tone someone else might have used to say something like “oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll wash the dishes.”

Only after they escape the park and turn to the street that leads to one of the entrances to their bunker, Q asks, trying to sound as delicate as possible, “Excuse me, sir, but did you say he would eat that thing?”

“Tastes differ,” Mallory answers.

“Whoever this was, I knew they’d try very, very hard,” Mallory says.

Bond sits in an armchair and stretches his legs.

“Got scotch?”

“No scotch for you,” Q says. “But I have beer. And cookies. And those gluten-free crackers, but I’ll have to warn you they taste like cardboard.”

“The contrast,” Mallory says.

“Sometimes I feel like eating healthy, sometimes I just relieve stress.”

“Cookies won’t help today,” Bond comments.

“Fine,” Q says. “Can I leave you two together? I mean, I need to be sure you’re not going to try to kill each other.”

After this comes a long pause.

Then Mallory says, “We’ll last for another fifteen minutes.”

The thing about Mallory is — has been, at least — that you can never tell if he is joking or not, which is especially puzzling when it comes to conversations that are not strictly formal. But Q starts to learn something about this man; he notices Mallory jokes with an especially serious voice.

Q returns with three different types of ramen and three boxes of gyoza — shrimp, pork, vegetables. He also grabs a box of takoyaki, which he deliberately puts as far from Mallory as possible.

“Thanks,” Mallory says.

A sleek black tentacle, slightly thinner than the one Q saw at a park, stretches to a ramen bowl and chopsticks. It seems to be growing from Mallory’s wrist, but the moment he takes the chopsticks in his hand, the tentacle vanishes like it never existed.

“Didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Mallory says.

Q gives him a slight smile. “I guess nothing can make me uncomfortable now.”

“They sometimes come in handy,” Mallory explains, obviously meaning the tentacles. “But not everyone likes them.”

“The Japanese draw porn with stuff like this,” Q blurts and instantly feels embarrassed.

Now he must have made Mallory uncomfortable with a comment that was totally unnecessary. But Mallory doesn’t have time to answer; there is a sound of a fridge door opening in the kitchen, then of bottles clinking. Then Q hears Bond’s voice.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Bond says. “You get to choose between Alien Abduction and The Beast From the Black Lagoon. I’ll have Liquid Armageddon. Who could possibly name a beer like that?”

“007,” Q says, “There is more Liquid Armageddon in the fridge, it’s just behind the milk bottles.”

He turns to Mallory.

“Scottish beer, supposed to be sixty-five percent, and they’re quite proud of this. Bought it out of sheer curiosity.”

“I guess it might be too early for Armageddon,” Mallory says. “The end is not that nigh. But let’s try it.”

And this is how they spend the second evening together. Q looks for people Silva had been in touch with before the Skyfall incident, and tries to track everyone Silva had known during his years in China. Bond eats all the shrimp gyoza when nobody is watching. Mallory demonstratively ignores fried octopus balls and politely declines when Bond offers him some.

“I was thinking,” Q starts.

Bond and Mallory look at him.

“Wasn’t the best idea to get rid of the corpse,” Q says. “We could have used it for research. We have a classified lab, I could have pulled this off.”

“We were in a rush,” Mallory answers, fishing a piece of beef out of his ramen bowl.

There is a tentacle wrapped around his chopsticks, thinner than the ones Q had seen before. It moves is in some weirdly sophisticated way, Q notes to himself.

“When did you manage to do it?”

“Before we left,” Mallory says, in a tone that implies it is the most obvious thing in the world.

An hour later, Bond raises the uncomfortable question Q had hoped he wouldn’t raise.

“I thought” Bond says, “the Great Old Ones were all in on this.”

Mallory seems unflappable.

“On what?”

“Murders, for instance. Would have been a smart tactic to cover each other up. Good for survival. Better to help those who are like you than humans.”

“All gays are the same and have a secret lobby,” Q says, not hiding his sarcasm. “It’s very convenient, you know. And we have better merch than the Masons. No silly aprons and things like that.”

Mallory lets out a quiet, soft laugh. It’s... different. It's not like anything Q has heard from him before.

Not that Q sympathizes with ancient beasts; he can’t, not after all those things he had seen in the past two days. But such comments seem in some way… discriminating.

“By the way,” Bond asks innocently, “does miss Moneypenny know?”

“Knowing certain things wouldn’t do wonders to her mental health,” Mallory says. Before Bond has time to think of yet another snide remark, Mallory adds, “And strictly speaking, only Yog Sothoth and his friends can be called the Great Old Ones.”

“In his house at R'lyeh Cthulhu waits dreaming, that kind of stuff?” Q clarifies.

“As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t wait dreaming. He’s long dead.”

“If the Great Old Ones are those things,” Bond says, “then who are you?”

The air around them gets colder, like yesterday.

“Human,” Mallory answers flatly. “With a slight dash of not so human blood. At least this is how I’m used to thinking of myself.”

“And are there many like you?”

“As many as those like you,” Mallory says. “Genes, as you know, do not repeat themselves. To each his own set of mutations. But if you’re asking about half-bloods, yes, they’re in the majority.”

“Was Silva a half-blood?”

“I think so. There are some things in his biography that point to this. His mother was a rather peculiar woman. No wonder they locked her up in a psychiatric ward for the rest of her life”.

“And you too have someone… peculiar in your family?” Bond asks.

It’s a show-me-what-you-are-made-of kind of question.

“Yes,” Mallory admits dryly, without even a hint of embarrassment. “My great-great-grandfather was quite fond of what he called magic. It was fashionable at the time. Some wealthy ladies and gentlemen paid people who claimed to be magicians to summon spirits. Some even thought of themselves as of mystics. My great-great-grandfather had gone a bit too far in his occult studies, I guess. There were some very obvious consequences. So you could say certain family secrets date back to Queen Victoria.”

**Author's Note:**

> I first wrote this fic in Russian, for a fandom challenge this autumn. It is heavily inspired by Neil Gaiman's A Study in Emerald, which itself is a Sherlock Holmes story happening in the Ctulhu Mythos universe. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing something in English, so please feel free to point out mistakes, inaccuracies, stylistic flaws and anything you feel just doesn't work here. Thanks! And hope you enjoy reading this.


End file.
